


Four Gentlemen

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Tale of Genji - Murasaki Shikibu
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fathers, mothers, sisters, lovers, friends. Through the seasons, Tamakazura negotiates the dangers of love and longing in Genji’s Rokujo estate and finds an ally in Murasaki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Gentlemen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maat (maat_seshat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maat_seshat/gifts).



  
**i**  
 **orchid**  


With spring came the first tender new shoots, and though the mornings were still quite cold and her women found it needful to huddle within several layers, Tamakazura often ventured onto the veranda of the west wing. At first she only went to the edge of her curtains, then she stepped out into the aisle, and once there it was a simple matter for her to slip between the blinds. She stood, the bamboo slats rattling in the breeze of her passing, and looked at the garden until she felt dizzy with daylight.

How strange is my life! she thought, reflecting that last year, in this very same month, she had fled from the brusque and absurd attentions of Taifu no Gen. She endeavoured not to think of that man, for his behaviour really had been shocking and her flight had been desperate, but at times the memory of his voice intruded into her settled peace and put her on edge. Even here on a spring morning in Genji’s large and magnificent Rokujo estate, she felt the shadow of the past stretch towards her.

Perhaps it was the freshening quality of the air, but Tamakazura felt a longing to wander. Though she enjoyed the quiet company of her neighbour Hanachirusato, her thoughts turned to the lady in the southeast. Tamakazura chided herself for her shyness. She had journeyed all the way from Hizen, yet the distance between the west wing and the southeast quarter seemed impossibly vast.

After much consideration she set herself to write. Her women brought ink and paper, and she composed a message while seated behind the green blinds. Deliberately she used plain white paper, lining it up on the floorboards so the shadow of the slats fell across the dazzling surface. She matched her hand to the shadow-lines.

“‘Having had from childhood no mother to guide me’[1],” she wrote, “I have also had no father. Now _he_ wishes me to consider him as my father, but I am sadly at a loss as to the way I should address you. Please be kind to me and forgive me my mistakes. I hope you will instruct me.”

She sent it off with a pretty page-girl.

Murasaki received it with interest. Ukon was sitting with her, brushing her lady’s hair, and she made to retire when the message came. But Murasaki told her to stay, for she wished to discuss the girl and Ukon was the best qualified for such a conversation.

“Many letters go into the west wing,” Murasaki noted, “but few come out.”

“His Grace is no doubt handling things with his usual skill,” Ukon said. “The girl may be older than most, but she is years behind in her experience of the world. Her mother, too, was possessed of such innocence; and look where that led her! No, it will not do for all these gallant suitors to turn the young lady’s head. His Grace does well to protect her and to direct which letters require a proper response.”

Murasaki smiled faintly. “Yes, he protects her. He fusses over her like a hen with its chick.”

Ukon gave her an indulgent look. “His Grace has behaved like this before. The sad loss of his mother at such a young age must have made him more conscientious than most as to the welfare of those in similar circumstances.”

The remark was just the sort of thing one would expect from a gentlewoman one had known all of one’s life, but to Murasaki it sounded like the clanging of a temple bell. She knew—for he had given himself away in his looks and speech—that her lord’s interest in Tamakazura was far from fatherly. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know him so well! she thought with a sigh, but there was nothing to be done. It would be better if I made an ally of her now, before his fascination goes too far.

For all that her position in his heart was unassailable, Murasaki still suffered occasional pangs of unseemly emotion. It was quite natural, one supposes, even though Genji made sure to profess his devotion to her day and night. To ease her mind, Murasaki invited Tamakazura to call on her.

They had not met face to face since the New Year, when Genji’s little daughter had run to and fro along the bridgeway, heedless of the dividing curtains. Now they sat alone, Murasaki’s gentlewomen a little way off and Tamakazura’s ladies elsewhere. A thin curtain once again separated them. Murasaki considered moving it aside, but decided to maintain a polite distance for now. She studied the young lady of the west wing, who was dressed in the kerria-yellow combination. Perhaps it was a little bold, but the effect was quite becoming.

They spoke of pleasant things for a while, and Murasaki grew disappointed. She could have this kind of conversation with any of her women. It would be too unseemly for her to speak directly, though, so she continued on the subject of spring flowers.

For her part, Tamakazura felt anxiety knot itself like a love letter. She was sure her choice of gown was all wrong, and while she couldn’t see Genji’s lady clearly, she saw the luxurious length of her hair and how the ends thinned prettily. Tamakazura resisted the impulse to stroke her own hair to see if it compared. Her disquiet made her forget herself, and she said on impulse, “I wish my hair was as beautiful as yours. There is something unruly about mine. It doesn’t always lie flat, perhaps because I had no mother to brush it when I was a child. Your little girl is fortunate, for she will learn many things at your knee while you attend to her.”

Murasaki was not sure how to respond to such a gauche speech, but it was an opening to a more honest discussion, and she took it. “I’m sure you’re aware that my dear pine seedling grew up far from this poor tree,” she said. “Though I delight in her, sometimes I have doubts about my abilities. I would not wish to compound my errors.”

Tamakazura was secretly relieved, for she had no desire to think of Murasaki as her ‘mother’ just as she struggled with Genji’s exhortation to think of him as her ‘father’. There were only six years between her and Murasaki, after all.

Only six years! thought Murasaki, feeling sorry for the young lady of the west wing. Six years between us, yet a gulf of experience. What can I offer her except a listening ear and silence? In time perhaps she will look upon me as a sister and take my advice, but what can I tell her about _him_ when not even he is sure of his own mind? She did not want to be disloyal, but Ukon’s words had penetrated into her heart and she knew with startling clarity that Genji might be tempted to model the shape of Tamakazura’s life the way he’d taken charge of hers. If that happened—if she allowed it to happen—either she or the young lady would end up adrift in suffering.

Careful of her words, Murasaki said, “We are alike, you and I. More so than you might imagine. But when I was a child, I gave no consideration to my future, whereas you must have given it constant thought.”

“I had neither mother nor father, so I didn’t think I had a future,” Tamakazura said. Her hands, at first resting in her lap, now lifted. She plucked at her sleeve, smoothed it, then forced herself to stillness again. “My nurse and her husband put it about that I was their granddaughter, and treated me accordingly.”

Murasaki sighed, for she remembered her own grandmother and the scoldings she received when she was a little girl. “My mother died when I was very young, too,” she said. “My grandmother took care of me, because my father was too busy, but then she died, and I was all alone, and my father came and said there was a problem—I scarcely recall what—and it was impossible for me to go with him...” Her voice trailed away as memories rose up. Those were days she had long put behind her, and to her surprise she found it painful to recall them. She spoke again. “Genji came for me. I remember waking in his house and thinking it was still a dream. At first he urged me to think of him as a mother, tender to my every need, but later...”

They sat in silence. Outside, a breeze rustled through the stand of bamboo. Orchids tossed their heads. A faint fragrance hung between them.

“We were both brought into his house with our mothers gone and our fathers absent. Without him, our futures would have been uncertain. Neither of us had much choice in the matter.” Tamakazura only spoke the truth, but to hear it stated so simply was unpleasant.

“I don’t see it like that,” Murasaki protested, but her emotions were all in a jumble. For years she hadn’t considered his motivation in choosing her. She had simply taken it for granted that he loved her so very much that he couldn’t bear to entrust her upbringing to anyone but himself. Now she saw a pattern emerging, and though she didn’t doubt him, the feeling was enough to make her uncertain, and it was painful.

Tamakazura understood from this longer silence that she had outstayed her welcome. She made her excuses and got up to leave.

Murasaki laughed briefly and recited:

  
 _And at last you think of returning home,  
Now when my heart is almost broken..._ [2]  


Tamakazura hung her head, ashamed of causing such distress. “I had no wish to hurt you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

“My sleeves have soaked up more dew than this.” Murasaki smiled. “I am glad you came.”

* * *

  


  
 **ii**  
 **bamboo**  


The start of the sixth month brought relief from the long rains. The sun gilded the Rokujo estate with splendour, and with the warm days and balmy evenings came the time for the ladies of that household to sort through their gowns and dye new cloth. The mistress of the southeast quarter assembled her gentlewomen and maids, and many a discussion was held on which silks to dip, which colours to choose. Murasaki had an eye for such things, and everyone deferred to her taste, which was exquisite.

Talk and laughter spilled across the gardens, and soon the pages in their light summer shifts were hurrying hither and thither across the estate from one pavilion to another delivering messages and invitations. The Akashi Lady hoped for gowns that matched the colours her daughter would be wearing, and asked that she might be permitted to embroider a design upon the little girl’s robes. Hanachirusato requested an outfit of greens and pinks, nothing frivolous but rather in mature shades. She at least trusted Murasaki’s skills. Suetsumuhana and Utsusemi requested nothing, but the former lady did offer all sorts of advice, which, though kindly meant, did not help much.

Tamakazura had been keeping to herself in recent days, ever since the unpleasant incident with the fireflies and His Highness of War. She still hadn’t forgiven Genji for the trick he’d played, which had only spurred His Highness to greater protestations of ardour, and she still had no intention of bending one way or the other. All men seem to prefer their women pliant! she thought, and determined to stand resolute.

As for His Highness of War, she gave him little consideration, only responding to his letters when Genji signalled that she should do so. The Prince’s effusive courtship embarrassed her as much as it amused Genji. Why must men make such fools of themselves? she wondered. Here is His Highness declaring his love for me, when all he has had of me is a handful of polite letters and an involuntary glimpse through a far curtain! She reflected that Taifu no Gen had tried to possess her after far less encouragement, and she lamented her sad fate. To be constantly pursued was extremely tiresome, and she could never let down her guard lest _he_ should slip behind her curtains and take advantage.

Now more than ever she longed for her real father, but Genji continued to make excuses. As the days lengthened, she turned her attention to studying music. He had told her of her father’s skill with the flute and on many stringed instruments, so now she applied herself diligently, hoping somehow to draw closer to her father through music. Her efforts impressed Genji and made him sigh for her all the more. It’s as if he enjoys my suffering, she thought. It’s as if my distress feeds the confusion and indecision within him. Repelled by this knowledge, and afraid of what might happen if she sat idle, she took to practicing the koto on the veranda.

Her music drifted across the garden, the melody like the plaintive cry of a deer. Murasaki’s women exclaimed at the sad notes. “Her playing is very fine, but the song is so unseasonal! Whatever can she be thinking?”

Murasaki wondered the same thing and sent over a note tied to a scrap of colourful cloth, inviting the young lady of the west wing to join their endeavours.

Tamakazura put aside her koto, made herself presentable, and went across the garden. Her thoughts were still in turmoil. Far from soothing her anxieties, the music had stirred up all kinds of conflicting emotions. Genji was never far from her mind, and she began to worry that she would give in to him. Familiarity should breed contempt, and she certainly disliked the way he tried to get around her, but it also bred a certain expectation. She missed him when she didn’t see him, yet when he visited, she wanted him to leave. This unhappy state of affairs could only end in disaster.

In a daze, she approached the southeast quarter. Murasaki stood on the veranda, supervising a flock of women dyeing cloth. With all the hues and shades of colour, it made for a charming sight, but Tamakazura was too miserable to appreciate it. How can I tell her? she thought, fretting even as Murasaki bade her welcome and began asking her opinions on this and that.

A white under-robe lay across a block with buckets of dye around it. Tamakazura saw her chance to speak without speaking. Heedless of what was proper, and certainly ignoring Murasaki’s comments on what colour scheme was planned for the garment, she dipped a ladle into a bucket of dye and spattered it across the gown.

The dye was red. It presented quite a sight, a bright flowering of deep crimson against the pure white.

The maids and gentlewomen squawked in horror. Murasaki went still and stared at the spreading stain.

“Leave us,” she said at length, and the women retreated from earshot and huddled on the bridgeway, chattering like crows.

Murasaki looked at the ruined gown for a long moment. “I see,” she said, and raised her gaze to Tamakazura. “Is it His Highness of War?”

“No.” Appalled by her shockingly brusque actions, Tamakazura now rued her decision. She had gone too far with her protest, but now she couldn’t take it back. Though her limbs trembled, she stood her ground and faced the mistress of Genji’s house.

Murasaki returned her attention to the robe. The red dye had penetrated all the way through and spilled down the side of the block. It looked like a pollution. “Is it the Commander of the Right?” she asked. “Surely it cannot be the Captain!”

“It’s neither of them. It’s...” Tamakazura hesitated, unwilling to say it outright. Instead she hastened to clarify her deed. Pointing at the stained garment, she said, “This was not a statement of fact, but of intent. This is a portent that requires no explanation from a yin yang master.”

Murasaki nodded grimly. “I understand.”

“I wish I were a princess so I might be spared all this trouble, but I am not, and so no matter what my wishes are, I cannot ever hope to escape.” Tamakazura started to weep. “He is so cruel.”

“Yes,” said Murasaki, her gaze sharp, her thoughts still sharper. “Yes, he is.”

* * *

  
 **iii**  
 **chrysanthemum**  


The end of the seventh month approached, and with it came cold breezes and the waning of colour amongst the flowers. The grasses withered by the summer heat now turned dark at the roots. The stream, which had retreated beneath the blaze of the sun, began to creep back to give full throat to its song.

In the west wing of that peerless Rokujo estate, Tamakazura no longer entertained hopes of being reunited with her father. She had heard through Genji and through Ukon—she trusted both of them equally now, though for different reasons—that His Excellency the Palace Minister had found another lost daughter, who was proving to be an embarrassment rather than a jewel. Despite all the high-ranking gentlemen who paid court to her, Tamakazura never put on airs and graces and certainly did not perceive herself as anything special. Nevertheless she had always believed that she had something to offer her father, should they ever chance to meet, and she knew she would not shame him. But now here was her half-sister, chasing about and making herself known in the most excruciating ways, and His Excellency was by all accounts quite at his wits’ end about it.

No, I would not do that to him, Tamakazura thought, but perhaps I should bide my time a little longer. He seems so frustrated and ashamed by his new discovery; I would not want him to be that upset over _me_. This is what she told herself, and Ukon encouraged such thoughts, repeating the latest gossip detailing the shameless pride of the girl from Omi and the embarrassing way she pushed herself forward. It seemed that everyone was laughing at her, including her father, and Tamakazura was grateful that she had not yet come to His Excellency’s attention.

The evenings were still pleasantly warm. Genji came to see her more frequently, and in her confusion over her feelings towards her father, she began to grow closer to the man who still pretended she was his daughter. Things were developing quite nicely as far as Genji was concerned, but she felt pulled in all directions at once. One can only guess at her emotions. She had given Murasaki fair warning of her concerns, but now her own sensibilities were betraying her.

Conscious of a yearning for a greater intimacy, yet despising herself for it, Tamakazura once again sought refuge in music. One fine evening while the insects whirred in defiance of the change of season, she accompanied the bell cricket’s song with a spring melody. Such was her agitation, but it only made her seem more refreshing. So thought Genji as he made his way to her rooms.

He recited:

 _My office has grown cold today;  
And I suddenly think of my mountain friend..._ [3] 

Chagrined that he should still associate her with the far-off wilds of Hizen, she responded:

 _The brook was pure in its mountain source,  
But away from the mountain its waters darken._ [4]

She meant to keep him at a distance, but he paid her no heed and only laughed. “Come now,” he chided, “play me your spring song again.”

But Tamakazura set aside her koto. He sat in the aisle and lifted her curtain to take the instrument. He plucked a few notes idly and looked around. Her women had withdrawn as soon as they heard his approach, and they were alone. He slipped beneath the curtain and sat beside her. She was surrounded by copies of the tales in which she’d found such solace during the long rains, and half hidden beneath the trailing hems of her pale violet gauze and green robes, he spotted a mirror.

He had never seen her attend to her looks before. She was always so nicely presented, even when he caught her unawares, and to find the mirror so close by made him tease her for vanity: “I thought you were unlike other young ladies, but now I see you are just as covetous of your beauty as any woman at court. Or perhaps you wish to be reminded of your youth? Your skin has no need of the chrysanthemum’s dew.”

Tamakazura took up the mirror and examined her reflection. She did not preen; rather, she looked at herself critically. She ignored his silly comments and said, “All this time I’ve wondered—who do I look like, my mother or my father?” She lowered the mirror and gazed at him directly. “You told me once that I don’t resemble my mother. Do I look like my father?”

Startled by the question, Genji sought to cover his confusion. “When I said you didn’t resemble your mother, I spoke hastily. There are similarities... but my memory fades with remembered grief, and when I think of her I see only you.” He saw that this didn’t please her and added, “You are like her in other ways. The tilt of your head, for example, or the way you hold a writing brush.”

“These seem like insignificant things,” she said, disappointed. “I must resemble my father, then.”

Again he was evasive. “You and she are incomparable. It is not nice for a girl to wish to draw comparisons with her own mother. A woman should be modest and not seek compliments in this way.”

She laughed. “I am seeking the truth, not compliments.”

But still he refused to give her an answer. His face betrayed his agitation, and she wondered at it. What lay between him and her father that he should act like this?

Genji realised he should say something to explain away his disquiet. “You want the truth? Very well, I will tell you. I thought your mother was a fox spirit. Please don’t laugh and please don’t be angry! That’s my honest belief. She was beautiful, yet ordinary. A man could lose his mind when he was with her, yet away from her, he would wonder why she made his heart beat so fast. Her behaviour was nothing special, yet she caught a more discerning and fastidious man than me. What else could she have been but a fox?”

It sounded strange, but Tamakazura knew of stranger fates. She had no wish to doubt things that were beyond her experience and was fearful of reprisals from sources from that other world. Her uncertainty showed in her looks and movements.

Encouraged by her silence, Genji saw a way to press his suit afresh. “If your mother was truly a fox, as I believe, then you share her powers of bewitchment. Not that you are ordinary in any way; oh no! You are quite extraordinary, in fact, and in the short time you have lived here under my special care, you have blossomed in every way. The gentlemen at court talk of no one else but you, and you must know that my own thoughts turn frequently in your direction. You are that unique thing, the child of a fox and a human, and in your looks and manner you have inherited the most outstanding qualities of both your parents.”

Tamakazura found his talk repellent. She didn’t want to be a fox-child, but perhaps, she thought, that is why I continually reside here, neither a daughter nor a wife, neither in the world nor out of it.

He moved closer, toying with the soft ends of her hair. He held his hand towards the light from the cressets outside and said, “Look here, you have gleams of red in your hair. Perhaps it is just the reflection of the flames, or maybe it is your fox blood showing...”

He was teasing, of course, but she was incensed and pulled away from him. She called for her women, and he chuckled. “How childish you are! I was paying you a compliment, or so I thought.”

“I told you,” she said, her voice low and angry, “I do not want compliments.”

Seeing that he had misjudged her mood, he sighed and shook out his sleeves and prepared to leave. He lingered, though, until her women came hurrying to attend her, and then he withdrew with great reluctance. He had not seen her so angry before, and she really was delicious. Many times he had witnessed her father’s temper, and in this she equalled His Excellency the Palace Minister, and matched him for looks, too. Genji sighed again at his memories.

As soon as he left, Tamakazura took up her brush and dashed off a letter to the mistress of the southeast quarter. She was much too angry to phrase it nicely, but she was conscious of the late hour and tempered her demand accordingly. Then she lay down to sleep, but stayed awake the whole night long, wondering if there was any truth in the things he’d said. Her mother’s death had been so peculiar. What if she really had been a fox?

Murasaki read the letter in the morning and decided to call upon the young lady in the west wing. She found Tamakazura looking sad and tired, but her youthful beauty still shone through. The young lady explained all that had passed between her and Genji the night before. “He seems to turn every conversation into a courtship,” she said, her misery weighing her down. “I only wished to know if I favoured my mother or my father in looks.”

“I am sorry I can’t give you a satisfactory answer,” Murasaki said carefully. “I have only seen His Excellency your father from a distance, and besides, I can’t judge looks. One cannot draw comparisons with people the way one does with gown assemblages or flowers. You look like yourself, and that is all that matters.”

Her words did not console Tamakazura, who sighed. “There must be something in me that calls to mind that other sad lady.”

Murasaki sat closer and took the young lady’s hand to comfort her. “My lord doesn’t tell me everything, but he did give me the particulars of his relationship with your mother. From his descriptions of her person and manner, I believe you resemble your father more.”

This was what the young lady had hoped to hear. She turned to Murasaki with charming eagerness and pressed for details of her father’s looks: “For I have never seen him, not even from a distance, not even at New Year.”

Murasaki hesitated. She wondered how much she might be permitted to say, how much of herself she was ready to reveal. Tamakazura’s distress was real enough, she knew, and her compassion encouraged her to speak freely. “I saw your father once without screens or curtains between us. It was accidental, there was nothing improper about it—” How I seem to be justifying myself! she thought, and continued with greater care: “He is a most determined man, clever and charming. I think he wishes he could be immutable, like a mountain, but even a mountain can be reduced, so perhaps it is better to say he is like fire. He is quick to anger and slow to forgive, but when he changes his mind, he is generous.”

Tamakazura listened to all this, comparing Murasaki’s words with what she had been told by Genji and Ukon. “You paint a different picture,” she said.

Murasaki blushed. “I see many things differently.” She studied the young lady and saw her father’s looks clear enough, his sharp lines hidden beneath the softness of youth. She sighed. “Your father is handsome, quite the handsomest man I ever laid eyes upon. You see, while my lord is extraordinary in his looks, after a long and intimate familiarity such as ours, I consider him ordinary, for beneath his beauty he is a man like any other. His Excellency your father, though, is the very best amongst ordinary men, so to me he seems extraordinary...”

Tamakazura stared at her in wonder. It seems as if she is a little in love with my father! she thought. How is such a thing possible? But I suppose it is our karma to always want what we cannot have. She kept these thoughts to herself.

Murasaki smiled fondly at the young lady. “I always thought His Excellency your father was a fox spirit. The ordinary made extraordinary—that is the nature of a fox. His quickness, too, is like that creature. And he is so very handsome.”

Far from being pleased, Tamakazura despaired. “ _He_ says my mother looked like a fox. Now you say the same of my father!”

Murasaki laughed. “Then surely that makes you a fox, too.”

Tamakazura let out a cry of anger. “That’s what he wants! Don’t you see? If he believes I am a fox’s daughter, he imbues me with the qualities of a fox. His misconduct becomes my game of seduction; instead of taking responsibility for his actions, he can blame me for wantonness.”

Oh dear, thought Murasaki, he really shouldn’t torment her like this. Never mind that his fascination hurts me, too, and no doubt all his other ladies—this girl was not raised like us, and it is too awful of him to seek to mould her now at this age when she should have a husband and family of her own! Her real father would not have her suffer in this way. But what can I do?

Tamakazura mastered her emotions. She sat straight and presented a coolly perfect look. “I have decided,” she said. “If he thinks of me as a fox, then a fox I shall become. A fox would find her own way, choose her own destiny. This is what I will do.”

Murasaki was shocked. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Tamakazura’s certainty wavered only for a moment. “But I will find a way.”

* * *

 **iv**  
 **plum**

Winter arrived very delicately, with a rime of white delineating the leaves and those hardy flowers still showing themselves in the garden. The trunk of the plum tree was very black against the sparkling frost. Another full year had passed, and though Genji had informed His Excellency of Tamakazura’s circumstances, nothing really had changed. She still resided in the west wing, attended by the same women. Her suitors were still just as passionate, though she no longer had to maintain the pretence of considering letters from her own brothers. He who used to believe himself her brother now came in their place, and made a thorough nuisance of himself.

She was disappointed, too, in both of the men who called themselves her father. His Excellency was delighted with her, as well he might be, yet he declared himself satisfied with the care and attention she received from Genji, and he deferred all his decisions to His Grace. Of course she guessed her father’s thoughts. He does not want me because he thinks I belong to _him_ , she thought. After all this time, my father believes it impossible that I can have withstood the blandishments of so great and famous a seducer as Shining Genji! Anger at her father made her soften towards His Grace, but she was still in danger from that quarter. The revelation of her birth had eased Genji’s responsibilities towards her, and still he did not know how to deal with her.

They do not care about _me_ , she told herself, scratching at her mirror with a stone until she could no longer see her reflection. They care only about themselves. I have brought them together again, and yet while they delight in their reunion, they spare not a thought for the one who was the cause of their meeting. These were the kind of thoughts that dogged her, and very tedious they were, too, for they gave her no rest.

But she did those two gentlemen a disservice. Her future was a topic they often discussed. Genji had noted the lady’s preference for His Majesty and urged her to accept intimate service within the palace, but she resisted. Not from any concern over the hurt it would cause her sister the Consort, but from the fact that she had no wish to make herself so available. She had spent so much time defending her heart and person from unwelcome attack that now, when she felt a thaw, it was quite the wrong season. She looked at the pattern of her life and reflected that she had always been too late and had always been heading in the wrong direction.

As for her other suitors, His Highness of War was yet considered a fine match. She did not want him for the same reason she rejected His Majesty. His Excellency approved in principle of the Commander of the Right, and though he was not unpleasant to look at, there was something in his personality that reminded her of the loathsome Taifu no Gen. All the other gentlemen who still pursued her were not worth speaking about.

Since the donning of her train, Tamakazura had felt as if her life were frozen. Now as she gazed at the frost-touched garden, something woke within her. She recalled her words to the mistress of the southeast quarter last autumn and was shocked at how she’d allowed herself to remain so passive. She had been so full of determination then, but events had overtaken her. Now she had another chance while His Excellency and His Grace dawdled over their decision for her future.

One cold afternoon, she invited Murasaki to visit. Their women huddled around the braziers, but they sat on the veranda, their faces touched by the weak warmth of the sun. Tamakazura had not neglected her study of music, and was now quite proficient with all the stringed instruments. She played a selection of melodies and Murasaki sang a sweet accompaniment. They fell into silence for a while, each considering her own thoughts, and then Murasaki smiled and recited:

  
 _The wind brings me odours of lotuses,  
And bamboo-leaves drip with a music of dew..._  


Tamakazura responded:

 _I would take up my lute and play,  
But, alas, who here would understand?_ [5]

But they understood one another well enough after all this time.

“There are many things I don’t want to be,” Tamakazura said. “I don’t want to be a surrogate. I don’t want to be an object of revenge. I don’t want to be a rival. I don’t want to be a model for all women to follow. I don’t know how to be a daughter, and perhaps it is too late for me to learn how to be a wife.”

“It is not too late,” Murasaki said, “but it will depend upon the man.”

Tamakazura shook her head. “I take my instruction from the illustrated stories we’ve read. I want someone to love me for myself, not my lineage or my looks; I want a love such as those set down in the tales.”

“Oh, but those tales are not at all edifying,” Murasaki protested. “You should not aspire to them. They show things to avoid. Besides, they are dreadfully unrealistic.”

But Tamakazura showed her father’s stubbornness. “If I can’t have love, I still want a man’s sole attention. I will not be content to play in a minor key.”

Murasaki understood this wish, but she still thought it unreasonable. She laughed. “How proud you are! I would worry if any man set me above all other things. It cannot be proper or comfortable to be so elevated. Why, what will happen when the man changes his mind? For they do, you know. Men like to say that women are fickle, but it is quite the opposite.”

“Then I will choose a man whose inconstant days are long gone, and I will inspire him to such devotion that he will become tedious with it,” Tamakazura said. “No matter that such a man will forever be locked out of my heart. If it’s my fate to suffer, then I will embrace it in a manner that ensures that those I care for remain untouched by it.”

Murasaki looked up, clear gaze penetrating. “Do you have someone in mind?”

Tamakazura let her thoughts dwell on the Commander of the Right. “There is only one possibility.” She didn’t blush, didn’t tremble. She did not love him in the slightest, but he was the most practical choice. She looked at Murasaki. “If I had my way, the situation would be manageable and no one would suffer unduly. But...”

“Ah,” said Murasaki, understanding. Ties of blood meant less in this world of Rokujo, and she found she was strangely untouched by the thought of her half-sister’s unhappiness. “So you are resolved to accept him.”

Tamakazura inclined her head. “A resolution born from urgency.”

Murasaki looked out at the plum tree. “Women like us must persevere,” she said. “If you are certain, I will help you. I will ensure your marriage.”

Tamakazura moved to sit beside Murasaki. They held hands and leaned together like sisters, or given the subject of their talk, perhaps more like mother and daughter.

“I am certain,” Tamakazura said. “I will not wait on _their_ decision. This is mine.”

In the garden, winter crawled onto every leaf and branch, but it did not harm the plum.

__________________________________________

[1] Wei Ying Wu, _To my Daughter on her marriage into the Yang family_. The letter also contains other references to this poem.  
[2] Li Bai, _In Spring_  
[3] Wei Ying Wu, _A Poem to a Taoist Hermit_  
[4] Du Fu, _Alone in Her Beauty_  
[5] Meng Hao Ran, _In Summer at the South Pavilion_

  



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